


Just a Glimpse

by adlyb



Category: The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Klaus being creepy, very minor Klaus/Greta Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-11 06:23:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15309354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adlyb/pseuds/adlyb
Summary: Curiosity killed the cat. (But satisfaction brought it back.) Before the bodyswap with Alaric, Klaus goes to Mystic Falls to investigate the rumors surrounding a certain doppelganger.





	1. To Seek

**Author's Note:**

  * For [icebluecyanide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icebluecyanide/gifts).



> Prompt fic written for icebluecyanide, who asked for Klaus going to check up on Elena before the sacrifice in season 2

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some (Elijah) might like to say he has poor impulse control, but Klaus thinks differently. No, if he had to say—and he has, on several memorable, destructive occasions—if he had to say, he simply enjoys indulging his curiosities.

To be sure, this trait has gotten him in trouble before.

He _had_ to drag Henrik along to see the wolves change their skins, just like he _had_ to entice the beautiful and aloof village widow to dance with him. Both decisions sealed his fate, one way or another. No one has ever dared ask if he regrets them.

The long and short of it is: He doesn’t.

And so it is that when he hears the first whisper of a Petrova doppelganger alive and well in the Old Dominion, he resolves to investigate for himself. Just a quick look, so he can put the matter to bed.

His curiosity has gotten him in trouble before. But never trouble such as this.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here’s the thing: Over the centuries, there have been nine girls brought forward to him as the doppelganger. Some had matched Tatia’s description admirably well. Only one had been the real thing.

The last vampire to tell tale of a live doppelganger had been back in the 1830s. The girl he’d brought to Klaus had been a dark-eyed Italian girl whose chin was too square and nose too pert. Klaus had devoured her just the same. She had struggled barely at all.

He expects this girl to be much the same.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He’s been given a description, and a name.

The description is vague. A lovely girl, teenaged and olive-skinned, with hair and eyes of darkest brown. Lithe of limb with a suggestive curve to her hips. All things possessed by countless girls.

The name is even less encouraging.

Elena Gilbert.

Thoroughly American. Unremarkable.

His hopes are not high.

And yet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What _is_ interesting is that the closer he draws to Virginia, the more savage the reports he hears surrounding the mystery of this Elena Gilbert.

Explosions. Werewolves with their hearts ripped out. Witches burned alive.

And a confused whisper of his brother’s involvement in it all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The reports are all weeks and weeks old before he ever hears them—years and years of reclusion have made him as difficult to find as a shadow at noon—and he can discover no evidence that Elijah is still at large in this fancifully named Mystic Falls. 

He realizes Elijah must have heard the rumors as well. Must have investigated and found the girl disappointing. Pity, but no surprise.

He takes extra precautions anyway.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Greta crafts for him a cunning spell of forgetting, and imbues the spell into an amulet of polished ivory, hewn from the femur of a wolf, so that whosoever should wear that amulet would wear the spell’s protection as well. So long as he wears the amulet, all memory of him will slip from the mind of anyone and everyone he meets mere moments after he departs.

He had once fashioned himself a king and flung his banners in blood and fire across the sky.

Prodigious age has taught him that there is greater power in letting himself fade into myth. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Greta looks at him with liquid, love-struck eyes when she drops the amulet into his outstretched palm.

She’d been an obedient daughter, sweet and virginal, when first he’d come across her.

Now her father is dead, slain in some misguided attempt to fetch her back. Klaus told her the news as he thrust himself inside of her. She cared not at all.

The witch is his creature and his acolyte, and it pleases him that it pleases her to do his bidding. It pleases him to be the object of her love, the sole master of her devotion.

She is his finest tool.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mystic Falls fills him with a soft unease that he cannot place his finger upon until he sees the great twisting serpent of the river, and he recognizes the shape of it from his muted mortal memories.

The day is a dreary one, the gray clouds rolling furiously in the sky. The yellow spring tulips hang limp with rain water, and the smell of freshly mown grass and earth churned for planting permeates the air. The wind moves through the limbs of the huge oak and magnolia trees planted along the town green, their leaves casting strange and shimmering shadows across the pitch that flicker at the edges of his sight. The denizens of Mystic Falls stream past him by automobile and by foot. He moves through everything like a dream.

The face of the place has changed, but has the heart?

A shiver of foreboding rolls up his spine.

There were once White Oaks here, stretching to the Heavens.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There was once a widow here, too, a woman of unearthly beauty and all too earthly desires.

Her blood had been the first, and the finest.

At night, sometimes, he speculates whether Katerina’s would have tasted quite the same.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He wonders what this girl will taste like.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Inquiry leads him to a large white house in a quiet neighborhood. Warm yellow lamplight spills from its windows.

Whoever lives inside this house must be very trusting of the world outside.

Anyone at all might look inside.

Any _thing_ at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amazing what kinds of information people will tell a stranger.

He so rarely must needs resort to compulsion if he instead chooses whom to question with a modicum of care and offers up the right smile. It’s become a favorite pass time of his in these dull modern centuries.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A girl flits in front of the window, her face obscured by the curtain of her hair.

The lamplight sets the girl’s hair to glistening. It is the exact shade he remembers.

His heart leaps.

The girl does not reappear again that night.

He watches until he sees her window go dark.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are things about this story that bother him very much.

Why had Elijah spent months here, and why did he leave, and whence did he go?

How did the Martin witches’ deaths factor in?

He tells himself this: If she were the real thing, a genuine Petrova doppelganger, no force on this earth would have pried Elijah from her side.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He still finds himself seeking her out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are many interesting things to be learned about this Elena Gilbert.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All agree she is a beauty.

A tragic beauty, some might say. Orphaned this last year in a terrible accident.

Some say she is sweet.

Others claim wild things about her—that she openly keeps two—no three—no _four_ lovers, men who are all far too old for her, save for the much-wronged high school sweetheart.  He’s told that she’s been seen gallivanting through the town at all hours, running naked through the woods, walking slowly as though in a daze to her home, all the while splashed in blood. In his mind’s eye he can see her, shining incarnadine like a primordial goddess.

One of them, an old man named Fell, suspects she is a vampire.

The idea that he has finally caught Katerina does flit across his mind before he dismisses it.

Everyone has an opinion on this Miss Elena Gilbert. Everyone knows her, and there is not a soul in this blasted town who is not all but fascinated by her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So it is quite frustrating that no one can tell him just where to find her. When he visits her school, she has skipped class. When he has a drink at the tavern she favors, she doesn’t show, and when he waits for her at her home, she stays out the whole night long.

Save for that one inconclusive glimpse, he has not seen her at all.

It’s enough to drive him mad.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He is nothing if not persistent.

If she is nowhere to be found, then he will search for her everywhere.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That single indistinct glimpse of her haunts and hounds him, interrupting his thoughts day and night.

Despite his best efforts, he finds himself as bewitched by Elena Gilbert as the rest of Mystic Falls.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eventually, the name of that high school lover filters through to him.

Stefan Salvatore. His lost brother.

All too vividly he recalls the way Stefan’s long white fingers would glide up his sister’s thighs. How she would gasp and bat at his shoulder, pretending to be anything other than utterly delighted by his carnal attentions.

He imagines those same fingers on Elena Gilbert’s golden thighs, imagines that smirking mouth he remembers too well pressed against her throat, her breasts, to the tender flesh between her legs.

Elena Gilbert is little more than a shadow, a phantom looming over all his thoughts, but loom she does, larger and larger with each day he fails to find her, and the idea of Stefan plying her with lovely words and lovely caresses, of Stefan tasting what must undoubtedly be lovely, lovely blood, fills him to the very brim with a hot and seething rage he has not felt in centuries.

He had felt like this the night Katerina fled from him.

The return of that feeling, so writhing and alive inside of him, makes him feel almost young again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Almost.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He wonders if Elena Gilbert knows what Stefan is.

Klaus cannot decide which answer he prefers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Boarding House is empty when he arrives. Never one to be constrained by the mores of polite society, he tries the front door. It swings open easily enough, though, a human’s ownership of the property repels him at the threshold.

No matter.

He circles round the house, peering through the musty glass windows into a room lavishly appointed in the style of a bygone century. Littered throughout the room are the artifacts of the countless hours spent here by some teenage girl, doubtlessly Elena Gilbert herself. A leather jacket, thrown carelessly over the back of a chair. The bookbag and text books for the school she apparently never attends, strewn over the floor by the fire. Hair ribbons and stray tubes of lipstick and the smell of her, pungent and frightfully familiar even through the glass. Her presence pervades the home itself, sinks into the warm and polished woods and plush velvet sofas.

And still she is not here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She is not here, and she is not anywhere.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He begins to think he made her up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Until—

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the outskirts of town there is a bridge that leads over the deep and silent river, and beyond it, to the ancient forest of his youth, and to the deafening thunder of the town’s eponymous water falls. As a child, he was taught to revere the gods that lived within and beyond those falls.

Old gods like those he can understand. Forces of raw and absolute power and caprice. Figures of wrath and ruin. Much like him, some might say. Whisper, more likely, if they believed in his very existence well enough to give the thought voice.

To these gods he ventures when he has had nothing but ill luck for turn upon turn of moon and sun.

It’s on the bridge, this Wickery Bridge, that he finally finds Elena Gilbert.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. To Find

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_It’s on the bridge, this Wickery Bridge, that he finally finds Elena Gilbert._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s her. It’s her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s _her_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Every detail, exactly just so. The line of her jaw, the curve of her cheek, the way her brows draw down over her eyes, so serious and stern.

She is exactly how he remembers.

The guard-rail on the bridge is badly damaged. The girl leans precariously over the side, staring intently into the black river beneath her. If she shifts her weight just a tad forward, she will tumble into the water.

He may be mistaken, but she looks taken by just that very idea.

The wind ruffles her hair, or the bridge creaks, or she feels the noose of her fate tighten round her neck, because, for whatever reason, she looks up of a sudden, and gazes directly into his eyes.

No—

Memory has not served him well.

She is a greater and far more terrible beauty than he had ever believed. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He had not truly credited until this moment that it would be she.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He drinks in the sight of her like a man who had not realized he was dying of thirst until the first taste of water has saved his life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

With all the care one would give to approaching a dangerous wild animal, Klaus takes a slow step towards her.

Elena Gilbert steps back as he steps forward, pressing herself to the rickety guard-rail. The girl has survival instincts, he’ll give her that. She knows a predator when she sees one, even one as well disguised behind dimpled smiles as he.

Klaus holds up a hand. “Careful now, sweetheart,” he tells her softly, making his voice gentle and soothing. “Don’t want to fall in, now do we?” Slowly, he extends his hand to her.

She stares at his outstretched palm as though it were an asp.

“I’m not sure. It might be for the best.”

It’s the first time he has heard her speak. The voice itself is husky and a little rough, though there is something oddly sweet in the lilt of her tongue, melancholic as her words might be. The sound of it pierces him to his very marrow.  

There’s something else there, too. A note of defiant iron that he had not expected.  

“I should hope not.” If she shifts her weight back even the tiniest inch, he’ll grab hold of her.

It is very hard not to do just that right now. The temptation to touch her, now that he has thought of it, is near overpowering—

He has not lived this long or survived so many enemies without learning to bridle himself.

Whatever dark and pensive reverie he had found her in evaporates like morning dew. A certain wariness takes possession of her.

Elena Gilbert straightens her shoulders. “Who are you, exactly?” she asks him. The command that he answer her forthright ripples from her very pores.

He wonders what about him has set her off so easily. What has given him away as something more than a concerned passerby. If he cracked her skull and looked into the yolk of her brain, would he find a part of her that instinctually recognizes him for who he is, the way that there will always be a part of him that knows her?  

“Oh, a friend, I’m sure.”

Suspicion plays across her face. He can see it in the way her brow knits before smoothing over, can sense it in the way her heart stutters and her breath hitches before she remasters herself. In the flutter of an eyelash, she is as cool as any queen.

“I’m sorry, have we met before?” she asks.

“Unfortunately not.”

She swallows, and reaches into her pocket. The movement is a tiny thing, nothing meant to be noticed.

“Did Klaus send you?” Her voice is low and grave when she speaks.

Even he, the most mighty being to walk this blue planet, feels the urge to accede to the imperious demand in her tone. He won’t deny himself the pleasure of answering her.

He cannot fight his smile as he lightly tells her, “Ah, you’ve heard of me.”

(The idea of Elena Gilbert, lying awake at night, thinking on him, fearful and restless, delights him.)

His fair doppelganger stumbles back against that feeble and broken guard-rail, and overbalances. Her back foot hits pure air behind her.

Klaus saves her without thought.

Grasping her by the elbows, he drags her away from the edge.

She clings to him, drawing in huge lungfuls of airs.

The knife in the dark comes in the form of a syringe full of vervain, injected directly into his carotid artery. The herb sears through his blood, turns his thoughts to flame. His vision blurs and he feels his fangs drop, but though Elena Gilbert struggles in his arm, a bird in a net, he does not release her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Time is a strange thing to an immortal. Decades, even centuries, might speed past, but some moments linger long after they have gone, like the light trailing behind a dead and distant star.

The four short months he spent with Katerina as his lover had been like that. As had the time when Marcellus was a boy.

Klaus feels time slowing again as his fingers clench around Elena Gilbert’s arms.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

How long does it take for his vision to clear, for his heart to regain its natural rhythm?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He doesn’t know.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When he can think clearly again, Elena has wilted in his arms, looking chilled and gray. She watches him uneasily.

He plucks the needle from his flesh and flicks the bottle into the river.

More than anything, he admires her for daring to strike against him. If he had been a normal vampire, she would have escaped.

But he is not normal, and neither is she.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes, he resents the inevitable conclusion.

For it is said: The third time is the charm.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Elena Gilbert looks up at him with too serious eyes, and studies him. Her pupils are blown wide. Probably from the dark. Perhaps, though, the press of their bodies where he clutches her to him affects her the way it affects him.

“Are you going to kill me now?” she asks him quietly.

“Not tonight.”

“When?”

“When the time is right.”

“I’ll make you a deal.”

The offer interests him. She interests him. Very much. “I’m listening.”

“If you leave my family and friends alone, if you promise not to touch anyone on my list, then I’ll come willingly. When the time is right.”

Such a terribly lovely creature. Cunning and brave and possessed of a face that men would throw themselves on their swords to look upon a moment longer. Many have. He has.

Unfortunately, having attained his mark, he finds himself no less transfixed by this girl. If anything, her sway is greater now that she stands here before him.

“I’ll need something from you, if I am to grant you a gift so great as this.”

“What?”

Perhaps if he had a taste of her, that would suffice.

“Give yourself to me tonight.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Give yourself to me. Avail your body and your inmost thoughts to me. Do this, and I will make certain that no harm comes to your beloveds when the moon is full and the time is nigh.” He slides his hands from her elbows up the tender inside of her arm, and then down, tracing her rib cage before circling her hips. There can be no mistaking his meaning.

“Okay.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her acquiescence comes so much swifter than he had anticipated.

No protestations, none of the expected declarations of love or fidelity to another.

It’s a heady thing, to have conquered this Elena Gilbert’s consent. There is power in her. Power to meet him as his match, he is sure, and yet she has bowed her head, put down her crown and sword and lain them at his feet.

Surely once he has sampled her, he will be free of this bewildering fascination with a mortal girl whose death he has so dearly hunted.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He cups her jaw and draws her face up to his. Elena Gilbert stands absolutely still as he tastes the soft skin along the underside of her fragile jaw, along the length of her throat. The blood rises to the surface. He inhales the scent of it, pulling as much of that familiar scent, that scent which to this day fills him with desire and regret, into his lungs.

The aroma of her makes him feel drunk.

When he kisses her, finally, he takes utmost care not to tear the fragile flesh of her lips, or to bruise her jaw with the press of his fingers.

At first, she does nothing, simply allows. Neither does she encourage nor dissuade. Except when he touches her throat, just _there_ , and when he changes the angle and the pressure of his kiss, her mouth parts open infinitesimally wider. He strokes his fingers over her face, her cheeks, feels the cool weight of her long hair. Errantly, he finds himself missing the curls that fashion dictates she straighten.

He buries his face in the crook of her neck and licks the salt-sweat from that delicious juncture between throat and shoulder. He tastes her arousal, deep and hidden, in its flavor. The discovery makes him grin into her fragrant skin.

When he delicately bites into the thin flesh of her throat, she makes this tiny, soft noise, something that he feels where their bodies are pressed together more than he hears.

The taste of her is exactly as intoxicating as he feared it would be. The urge to drain her dry rides him, an implacable weight bearing down on him that only his immense age allows him to buck.

Her blood pulses over his tongue, ripe with magic and potential. Beneath those things, he can taste a certain coy sweetness belonging to the girl herself. It has nothing to do with her doppelganger nature, and everything to do with her. The hint of it makes him clutch her all the closer.

He is very, very careful not to wound her any more than absolutely necessary.

All of his focus is on this connection point, on the feel of his fangs inside of her, and the gentle, hypnotic lap of her blood from her body into his.

The blood renders him half-stupid, which is why it catches him so unawares when Elena Gilbert reaches up to tangle her hands in his hair, pressing her breasts flush against his chest.

He pulls back, licking at the corner of his mouth, and traces his thumb over where he has marked her.

Elena Gilbert pins him with those deep dark doppelganger eyes, luminous with an unexpected hunger. Her hair is mussed and her breaths come in shallow pants, her breasts heaving with each intake of air through those pretty swollen lips. The temptation is too much. Especially when she steps into his arms as he reaches for her, and pulls his face down into a ravenous kiss.

The surreality of having her like this overcomes him.  

When he flicks open the button on her jeans and unzips her fly, when he shimmies her jeans down her hips and draws coaxing fingers over her girlish cotton underwear, he’s rewarded by the way she writhes against him. Elena Gilbert clutches his arms and squeezes her eyes shut when he runs a knuckle against the length of her quim, hot and pulsing and damp even through the thin layer of cotton. She jumps against him when he reaches her clit.

There’s a moment, however brief, when he pushes her underwear aside and slips two fingers inside of her, when her eyes pop open and she stares at him, open-mouthed and caught on the cusp of a groan. She tries to pull away, then, but she stops herself.

Were he not otherwise distracted, he would have applauded her faithfulness to her word. A deal’s a deal, no matter how uncomfortable.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s been some time since he has lain with a woman, longer still since he indulged in the preliminaries, but he still remembers just how Elena Gilbert’s forebears had liked to be touched. The girl in his arms spasms and shudders helplessly under his ministrations. He is, after all, a connoisseur of her body, if nothing else.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Out of the clear blue, she presses forward and bites him on the lip.

Elena Gilbert leans back with his blood on her lips. The moon rises behind her.

Suddenly, it is not he who has the control, but she.

A powerful creature indeed. And a dangerous one, he thinks, as an unexpected longing grips him.

Looking upon her is the worst sort of poison to the heart.

And the heart, _love_ —it is the greatest possible weakness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He flips her round so her face is hidden from him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Angry with himself, but more furious by far with her for nearly undoing him with naught but a well-timed nip, he peels her jeans off of her and uses his knee to shove her legs apart.

The girl reaches out and wraps her hands around the guard-rail until her knuckles turn white. It is the only sign of her discomposure.

The beam shakes under her fingers when he thrusts himself inside of her.

 

 

 

The girl is distractingly tight, and hot, and so very, very slick. The scent of her arousal fills the humid early spring night air, and makes it near impossible to think clearly.

Everything he is condenses to this: to finally having the right girl in his arms. For a moment, he can forget about what he ultimately intends to do with her.

He cannot see her face, but he can feel her heart beating through her ribcage when he presses his chest against her back and pushes deeper inside of her. The frantic rhythm of her heart tells him everything he needs to know, tells him things the soft hitch of her breath will not.

She cries out when he bites her again, this time on the other side of her neck. He tastes her dark excitement in her blood.

“Klaus—“

His name on her tongue intoxicates him. He reaches around and grasps a possessive hand around her breast.

Elena Gilbert gasps and arches against him.  “Klaus,” she tries again, her voice a breathy moan.

He growls against her throat.

It’s too much. The taste and the smell and the _feel_ of her, and the sound of her voice saying his name like _that_ —

“Promise me again,” she pants. “Promise me again that you’ll spare everyone I love.” She accentuates her request with a particularly feline roll of her hips.

She is a rare thing, a precious thing.

He can’t think to say no. He can’t think.

“Promise me.”

“I swear it.” He presses the words into the sensitive skin behind her ears. “I swear it, I swear it—“

Her body quakes through an orgasm that pulls him under, like the dark tide beneath a wave.

The guard-rail falls loose and lands in the river with a small splash.

Only Klaus’s arms wrapped around her keep Elena Gilbert from toppling after it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some little time later, Elena straightens her clothing and finger combs her hair. One of her earrings is missing, but she hasn’t yet noticed.

Klaus watches her through hooded eyes. He’s thinking about pulling her beneath him, about stripping her of those jeans and spreading her legs so he can drink from her thighs and lick their combined tastes from her sex.

She catches him, and shivers under his regard.

“What thoughts are in that pretty little head of yours?” he asks her.

“I’m relieved,” she tells him, candidly enough.

He crowds her and tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Will you be so— _relieved_ —when I return to claim you?”

“Will you keep your promise?” She stares him boldly in the eye.

Klaus pins her to the ground and catches her mouth in fierce and demanding kiss.

He simply cannot help himself. There are no others who are _her_.

As before, she does not turn him away. But unlike before, she kisses him back with fire.

He had asked her to give him the entire night. She had agreed. He intends to keep her to her bargain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_He keeps her up all night, and if she reveals to him certain secrets and past sorrows, it is only because he asks._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The first morning stars shine overhead when he finally escorts her back to that charming white house where first he’d glimpsed her.

“When will you be back?” Elena Gilbert asks him at the door. She speaks to him about her death with utter composure. He’s not seen one in a hundred thousand face their ends with such dignity. Brave indeed.

“Soon enough, my dear.”

He traces her face with the back of his hand.

Elena Gilbert looks up at him with deep, unfathomable eyes. For a moment, it seems as though she will say something else.

The first rays of morning sun spill over the tops of the tallest trees, suffusing them in golden light. The spell breaks, and his girl turns and lets herself in the house. The door clicks shut behind her, and just like that, he knows she has forgotten all about him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He does not forget her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_In the end, it’s mere jealousy that causes him to break his word to her. Mere jealousy that provokes him to kill her aunt, and to take Stefan from Mystic Falls and torture him all the summer long for daring to possess Elena Gilbert’s love._

_For although he has broken the curse, although he has everything of which he has ever dreamed, he finds his victory to be a hollow one._

_He wonders what she would have said to him, that glimmering dawn, if the sun had never risen._

_He wonders what would have happened if he had spirited her away instead of relinquishing her to their shared fate._

_And it eats at him, day by day, hour by hour, that he has killed her, and he will never see her radiant face again._

_Elena Gilbert is a ghost, a phantom shadowing his days and haunting his nights. He can look for her everywhere, but he will never find her._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Until—

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Questions? Comments? Please drop me a review if you enjoyed this, or drop by my tumblr: livlepretre 
> 
> Also, if you are new to my writing, please check out my WIP Fairytale Ending, in which Klaus really does succeed in taking Elena with him when he leaves town at the end of 3x05. Much angst and sexual tension ensue from there. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!!

**Author's Note:**

> Please read and review, and I’ll work on getting the conclusion posted soon! Next chapter is going to earn the rating. 
> 
> Also, if you’re new to my writing, and like the Klaus/Elena pairing, please check out my other fics! 
> 
> PS if you’re wondering about the rumors about Elena, the explanation is that the townspeople have also seen Katherine around town before she was trapped in the tomb, and thought it as Elena. So some of that is Elena, and some of that is Katherine.


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